


Heat of the Moment

by fr1day



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dogs are cute, Dreams, Episode: s03e11 Mystery Spot, Gabriel can traverse dreams, Gabriel hides behind the Trickster, Gabriel loves his dog, Gabriel-Centric, Nightmares, Witness Protection, fill-in, it just became that way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-11 22:35:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15981926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fr1day/pseuds/fr1day
Summary: It’s been more than two years now, and Sam still flinches and hurries to turn off the radio whenever he hearsthat song.Dean doesn’t notice.Someone else does, but what the hell is he supposed to do about it?





	Heat of the Moment

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sort of “what-if” fic that explores the reasons towards Sam’s relauctance to kill the Trickster at the beginning of Changing Channels, as well as more reasons Gabriel started getting involved in angel stuff after the episode.
> 
> Warning: this might not be that good. I wrote it accross several different times and it might not flow that well, but I’m too sleep-deprived to tell so I’ll post it anyway.

Heat of the moment.

Godamn _Heat of the moment._

He’d almost been murdered by wendigos, witches and women in white, mutilated by ghosts and ghouls, and the one sound that made him shudder like nothing else was a _fucking song by Asia._

Sam Winchester didn’t consider himself pathetic by any means. He was a hunter, and a good one at that; he could fit more lore in his head than in a textbook, and he’d been training for combat since he was a toddler. He was anything but pathetic.

But _this_? This was pathetic.

It’d been another semi-normal day- or as normal as their lives could get, what with half god’s army and enough demons to make a crucifix weep hot on their tails- which mostly consisted of driving, stopping for gas and maybe a snack, then more driving. It’d been almost peaceful, what with the crazy their life was nowadays, just the deep stutter and growl of the Impala’s engine and the sound of its tires against the tarmac of the roads they travelled.

While driving, he and Dean had lapsed into a comfortable silence. Dean’s eyes stayed steady on the road, flicking to read road signs and look over their surroundings a few times, and after a while he put out a hand and flicked on the radio. 

Sam wasn’t so enamoured with the choice of station, but he’d learned long ago that Dean’s rule of ‘driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole’ wasn’t negotiable, so he tuned it out and went back to staring out of the window, watching the trees, bushes and signs flicker by. He’d long ago developed this habit- of staying quiet in the car, just looking out the window- back when they still drove with Dad, and he always snapped at them about how he couldn’t concentrate and drive with their yammering distracting him.

He missed Dad.

The radio filled out the background noise perfectly, the 80’s station Dean had picked out playing fairly quietly from the speakers. So quiet, he didn’t even notice it at first, just read a road sign that proclaimed ‘Next Exit- Biggersons, 2 Miles” and scratched his cheek absently, where tiny amounts of facial hair were beginning to grow in.

Then it reached the chorus.

_“It was the heat of the moment, Telling me what your heart meant, The heat of the moment, shone in your eyes-“_

The tinny speakers of the Impala were all too reminiscent of the table radio at the hotel. Sam winced.

”Hey, Dean, can we turn that off?” He asked, fighting to keep his voice casual when he wanted to smack the switch off, culling the sounds that dredged up memories he _did not want to remember._

”You kiddin’, Sam? C’mon, this is a classic!”

 _“Oh, come on, you love this song and you know it.”_

_Dean was mouthing along to the lyrics now, pointing at Sam, and all Sam could think was he was going to die today. Dean was going to die today. Dean was going to-_

”Hey. _Sammy._ “

Dean snapped an irritated finger in his face, and Sam flinched. He reached over and slammed off the radio.

Dean raised one eyebrow. “Okaay.” He said slowly. “Wow, who knew you hated Asia that much?”

——

Sam feels like a jerk, even through he knows he shouldn’t be feeling like a jerk. He knows who _should._

His blood boils.

The small motel room’s slightly claustrophobic, especially with Dean sprawled out on one of the beds, and Sam’s not exactly in the mood for snoozing right now. He resolves to take a walk. Maybe it’ll clear his head.

Dusk settles all around him as he paces from their motel room door to the vending machine, and back. 

His mind is cluttered. _Heat of the moment, heat of the moment, Dean dies, run over, crushed, choked, killed, killed, killed._

 _Are you happy, you bastard? You’ve added a whole new level of fucked up to my life._ he thinks, knowing it’s aimless. The trickster’s long gone, and Sam doubts he knew what he was doing in the first place; whatever ‘lesson’ he’d been trying to teach at the Mystery Spot had been lost to the hunter, in favour of what- trauma? _Idiot._ he thinks. _He was just another idiot in a world of idiots, interfering in our lives in an idiotic way._

The trickster probably doesn’t even remember what he did. Just more business. More teaching _lessons_.

Sam kicks the wooden railing of the motel porch. The only thing it does is make his foot hurt.

——

Something sends a hot spike through the Trickster’s consciousness. He frowns between feeding the dog pieces of taffy and spirals a tendril of power into Sam’s head, shuffling through his thoughts.

He’s been in here before, of course; it’s usually well-organised, with emotions carefully in order and knowledge stacked like files in a cabinet. Mostly, there’s a lot of _thoughts about Dean_ , and recently some _thoughts on Castiel_ and _thoughts about angels and demons_. All very well kept. Careful organisation.

It hadn’t seemed as if it could be this easily disrupted.

Sam’s thoughts scream at him as if they recognise his intrusion, hissing at the edges of his power. Someone’s knocked over the filing cabinet.

_Mystery Spot. Fuck you. Hate you. Idiot idiot idiot idiot idiot. Horrible. Dead. Dean. Hate._

His first thought is, _wow, this kid has issues._

His second thought is, _Whoops. Might have given him this particular issue._

He withdraws from inside Sam’s thoughts, surprised at how relieved he feels once he’s out of there. Scratching behind his dog’s ear and biting off a piece of taffy of his own, he tries to justify himself.

_C’mon. You can’t be this soft. The loop taught him a lesson, at least. You know that, you’ve been over this, you’ve been inside his head._

He grimaces. _Yeah, just now, and wasn’t that all sunshine and rainbows._

The Trickster carefully picks through his own thoughts. He can’t afford feeling _empathy,_ for dad- for God’s sake. He’s supposed to keep an eye on them, that’s it, no strings attached. To anything.

He picks up his dog by the scruff of its neck and looks it in the eyes. “Not even you, buddy.”

The dog, being just a dog and not anything that he might have hoped it to be- a magical solution to all his problems, emotions being one of them, for instance- whines and he sighs, holding it on one arm and ruffling its fur.

Subtly trying to distract himself with the cuteness of his dog isn’t working. Wow, emotion sucks.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, frustration expressing itself when the miniature statue of the Burj Khalifa he’s been building on the sideboard out of metaphysical toothpicks shimmers and dissolves. Even his _toothpicks_? These _feelings_ are, fairly clearly, a human weakness that should be weeded out through several future centuries of selective evolution. That way Sam wouldn’t-

He groans. Yet _again_ he’s drawn to Sam the hunter, Sam the sasquatch, Sam the puppy he kicked. Several times. Maliciously.

_Okay, fine._

Shedding his inhibitions, he lets himself hone in on Sam’s location. The man’s lying asleep inside a grimy motel room, eyelids twitching slightly as whatever dream he’s having takes proper hold. All that thought-yelling must’ve tired the kid out. _And who’s fault is that?_ a nasty little voice somewhere in the back of the Trickster’s mind asks, and he makes a little note that if he ever has a chance to get rid of his conscience, he’s going to take it.

He figures it’s going to be easy to make himself heard- Sam’s even already dreaming, after all- so he shoves himself into the sasquatch-puppy’s head with all the foresight of a drunken skinny-dipper, plunging himself right in at the deep end.

For a second, as his Dream-self materialises, everything fades in and out of existence. This is what he doesn’t like about travelling through dreams, especially across long distances- it feels almost odd, tingly in a bad way, and mostly like he isn’t in control of the situation. Which, admittedly, is his main aim at almost any time.

He takes in Sam’s dream-surroundings skeptically, seeing mostly the typical stuff- it’s blurry, colourful, and unfocused, how dreams regularly are. It’s been a while since he’s been in one, though, and while he takes a second to reorientate himself a second voice in the back of his head mutters sullenly, _You know, it’s not too late to go back. He hasn’t seen you yet, and it’s not like this was a good idea in the first place..._

_Oh, come on. No way. The Trickster is many things, but a quitter is sure as hell not one of them._

As he prepares to search for Sam inside the dream, a smell catches him off guard. _Cheap fried onions, and roasted peanuts,_ something in his psyche recognises, and he narrows his eyes. Smells don’t usually show up in dreams, he knows- unless they’re particularly vivid.

_”Dean!”_

The noise makes the Trickster whip his head around, pushing him deeper into the dream. _Dreams are like onions,_ a particularly dopey part of his consciousness supplies, and he internally smothers that part of his brain to death so that it can never say anything ever again.

He’s right, though; there are layers to a dream. This one is sharp and raw, and the smells get stronger as he surveys the area, joined by the scent of mothballs and never-washed carpets. He’s cocking his head, trying to hear another dream-sound besides what appears to be a rotary fan, when it hits him.

 _Oh, crap_.

The black carpets, the smells, the fan, the “Dean”, the fact that it’s _Sam_ \- he kicks himself for not clocking earlier.

The Mystery Spot.

The Trickster swallows, floating deeper through the dream. It’s very... well, real. The sasquatch has a robust subconscious, as the trickster finds when he turns the corner in the hallway of the Mystery Spot and he sees what lies beyond.

The only good thing about what lies beyond him is that Sam, the real deal, is right there. That’s about where the positives end and everything else begins. Something cold creeps up the Trickster’s back, and he shivers uncharacteristically. He’s clocked, finally, what he should have easily known: it’s a nightmare.

Sam’s conciousness has constructed a blurry set: Dean, dead on the floor, blood in thick rivulets dripping from his chest and mouth; the walls of the Mystery Spot, shifting and changing, spinning like a hypnotist’s pendulum; and finally the Trickster himself (a cheap replica, evidently, the real thing is hard to get), standing there and mocking Sam as he kneels over Dean’s body and cries with hitching sobs.

 _”You really thought you’d ever escape this place? It’s all in your head, bucko, every last little itty bit of the last few years. All just a little glamour and a fresh coat of paint.”_ Dream-Trickster narrows its eyes, watching maliciously as Sam struggles to wipe his tears away and hold Dean’s form with one arm, his limbs trembling. _”You never left,”_ it spits, and the walls rotate in an endless cycle.

The Trickster watches this from behind the corner. Some small part of his consciousness points out the irony in the fact that Sam’s dreaming about him killing the only family he has left while the real him watches and trembles with barely surpressed rage. _And guilt,_ Another part supplies helpfully, _You’re horribly guilty, aren’t you?_

The Trickster knows what it says is true, and if this is guilt he never wants to feel it again. It punctures little holes in his stomach, burning a bright and terrible brand into his conscious mind that’s going to make him reach in and rip out his own grace if he doesn’t do something.

He does something.

Drawing upon the surface level of his power, he rips open the dream, fragments scattering and dissolving into black peace, leaving only a scared Sam behind. The latter gasps, head whipping back and forth as his weeping halts. He stands to his feet in a panic, searching for invisible enemies.

He uses the next level of his power to calm Sam, melting the black around him into a quiet, warm and carpeted room he caught sight of during one of his romps through both Winchester brothers’ thoughts. Some of the details might be fuzzy, but he materialises the surroundings meticulously- it’s easier than physical manipulation, since it’s only Sam’s brain that he needs to stimulate- and sets the hunter down on an easy chair.

“Oh my god, what the hell!”

Sam looks even more freaked out now. Well whatever, he tried, and the Trickster can only do so many nice things before he starts to feel embarrassed. (He has a reputation to uphold, after all.) The Trickster severs that glamour that hides his appearance and reveals himself to Sam.

”Hey, kid,” he chirps, trying to omit the usual mocking edge that he’s incorporated into his speech. Evidently, he doesn’t succeed, because the hunter in the chair looks at him all pissed-off and raises himself up to glare at him.

”That wasn’t me, okay? I swear. We good?” He yammers, trying to hide how unnerved he feels now that Sam’s staring him in the face, stoic with quiet fury.

”Shut up.”

Sam hisses it out, his face close to the Trickster’s. His glare cuts deep, and his next words are spoken with almost a growl, rumbling deep in his throat with surpressed rage.

”You know what? Just shut up. You don’t even realise what the hell you’ve done. You probably aren’t even here right now, are you? This is just another one of your _games_ , your _lessons_.” Sam grabs him by the shoulders in his furor, shaking him. “Do you even know what the hell you did to me? What’s _wrong_ with me? Do you even care?”

Sam’s voice cracks. He looks down at the floor, his arms falling limp at his sides.

”Of course you don’t care. What was I thinking?” he laughs, brokenly, boneless. An empty feeling breaches the Trickster’s hide, and he realises with a sinking feeling that the intensity of Sam’s emotion has reached him.

 _”You were the one who did this to me in the first place._ “

The Trickster stiffens, and a voice in his head reminds him, _he’s right, you know. He has every right to hate you._

 _Stop._ he growls internally, externally not allowing himself to betray any emotion.

 _But don’t you see,_ Gabriel _? You’ve made everything worse by coming here. Sam hates you with everything he has, and you can’t make him stop. You can’t snap this one out of existence. It’s all your fault. He hates you just like-_

”Why did you even come here? What the hell do you want? To make me watch my brother die again?”

_STOP._

_-just like_ He _hated you, Gabriel, just like everyone else does; because guess what, Gabriel, you’re a terrible person. You’re disgusting. And in top of that, you’re a coward. You flee in the time of need, you run in the face of danger, you take the easy way out-_

_STOP, PLEASE, STOP-_

It all bursts out of him in two words.

”I’M SORRY!”

Sam jumps back.

” _Sam, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I feel guilty, I didn’t want to_ -“ he swallows, realises what he’s saying, and curses himself for letting the wall crumble so easily.

Sam’s staring at him in shock and his expression weirdly makes Gab- the Trickster want to laugh. He doesn’t, though, just swallows, humiliation replacing the adrenalin in his veins, and mutters out, “Sorry.”

Sam’s face twists in confusion. “What?”

Now, the Trickster thinks, he’s TRYING to humiliate him. “I said it enough times,” he hisses, daring to look into his eyes again while his consciousness scrambles to rebuild the cocky facade he shoves on like a mask at a masquerade party.

Sam stares at him. “I’m totally dreaming,” he mumbles, and wakes up.

The Trickster’s stomach drops as his consciousness is shoved out of Sam’s; he’s plopped unceremoniously back into his vessel as his dream-self merges with his physical-self, who’s spent the last few hours- _has it really been that long? Time works differently in dreams, he’d forgotten about that_ \- staring at the green floral wallpaper.

”Ughh,” he groans as his power expands to fill the vessel once again, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders, relaxing (albeit unnecessary) actions that help reorientate him quickly after any kind of metaphysical travel. Well, _whoops_. That went terribly.

 _At least Sam probably thinks it was just a dream,_ he reasurres himself, walking over to the couch where the dog’s sleeping, making little chuffing sounds as it snores. It’s adorable. _Hopefully, he won’t remember it after a while._

The Trickster- Gabriel- materialises a red sucker in one hand, popping it in his mouth as his thinks. _Wishful thinking, eh?_

He falls on the couch with a sigh, nursing his wounded pride and waking the dog, who yips in surprise and trots over to lick his face. He rubs a hand through its fur therapeutically.

What is it, he thinks, what is it about Sam that makes him feel this way? That ruffles his feathers so much his carefully constructed wall comes crashing down once he starts to _feel something for him_? Granted, the feeling was guilt, but he’d never felt guilt so horribly and uncomfortably _intense_ before.

Some things just don’t bear thinking about.

But maybe others do.

There’s one thing he _can_ do about this whole situation. One thing he’s in control of. He rolls over on the couch, holding the dog above him and staring into its earnest brown eyes.

”Maybe it’s about time you and me confront this whole angel thing, huh, buddy?” He says softly.

——

Sam cracks a yawn as he sits up on the side of the bed, sleep still weighing him down. He stretches his arms above his head and cracks his knuckles, watching Dean brush his teeth in the bathroom mirror.

”Mornin’, Princess,” Dean teases, his voice muffled from a mouthful of toothpaste. Sam waves at him with slight fatigue, rubbing his eye and trying to remember what the hell he dreamed about.

”Hey, man, what the hell was going on last night? You slept like a total log. Wouldn’t even wake up to the radio,” Dean says, sitting down opposite him and beginning to lace up his boots, wallet clutches between his teeth.

”I don’t know, man,” Sam answers, scratching at his side and reaching for the pile of outdoor clothes at the end of his bed with his other hand. “It was weird, though, but I seriously can’t remember.”

Dean shrugs, and they make their way down to the restaurant for breakfast.

——

A few months later, when they realise they’re dealing with the Trickster yet again, Sam wrinkles his nose and tries to understand why he doesn’t want to straight-up gank the guy. He just feels some weird... not affection, but maybe- it just feels like he doesn’t have a problem with the dude anymore.

Which is why he argues that they don’t have to kill him, when Dean says, _“If you don’t want to kill him, then what?_ he finds himself saying, _“Talk to him?”_

Maybe the Trickster’s an amicable guy. Maybe he isn’t. Whatever he is, something went down between them, and it wasn’t just at the Mystery Spot.

**Author's Note:**

> This ended up SUPER LONG. Hope you like it, and please leave constructive criticism in the comments section if you think I could have done anything better. 
> 
> Also, this started out as a Sam Fic and somehow turned into a Gabriel Fic?? What the hell?


End file.
